


Pudicitia

by feralphoenix



Series: Puer Maledraconis Gulcasa☆Magica [2]
Category: Blaze Union, Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Gen, Illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long dark tunnel, but they've finally reached the light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pudicitia

**Author's Note:**

> Written with former team member [Rebbe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebbe), who prefers not to be listed as a co-author. Illustrations by [nii-me](http://nii-me.tumblr.com); Puer and Puella Magi costume designs by [Charmwitch](http://charmwitch.tumblr.com)!
> 
> See also the comic adaptation ([part one](http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=33085504), [part two](http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=38717675), part three).

It's a warm spring day today. There are birds all over the place, skirting up high as if to dance with the clouds and swooping down low to loop around the people in the park, singing so loudly it almost hurts the ears, but I don't mind. Honestly, if I were a bird, I'd probably be singing along too.

It's a warm spring day today, and I couldn't be any happier. Spring is probably my favourite season; the weather is always so beautiful and warm, flowers start blooming all over the place, and best of all, people won't look at you oddly if you walk around outside wearing a scarf or two. Autumn's pretty nice like that too, but it isn't spring.

Because spring is best for more reasons than scarves or flowers or light clean rains on misty mornings. After this year, I know I'll always love it most because it was in this season, on a day just like today with a bright sun and clear skies and a breeze so fresh it could make trees sprout leaves, that a good friend of mine was set free from a cage so tightly wound we'd all feared he would never get out.

He's been suffering for a long time, but he... isn't going to be hurting so much anymore. Even if we all spent months feeling powerless, wasting years and years on helplessness, that's all over now. Even if he hasn't quite woken up from that nightmare all the way, he's getting there, and with time, all those bruises will fade. I'm sure of it.

And it makes me so happy that there are times when I almost can't really believe it's happening. That's a silly thing to think, so I don't entertain it much. Instead, I focus on how happy we all are, now that we don't have to worry about his father overhearing our laughter. And there are not words enough to describe how light my chest feels right now, how the sky looks so close, how the birds seem so near I could catch their feathers between my fingers if I jumped. I really could start singing, if only I had wings to bear me up and send me careening into the sky.

I'm really glad I don't, though. I can't stand heights.

Running suits me just fine, and on a day as pretty as this, no one's going to stop me or look at me askance in a park like this. Open fields, open skies -- they'll probably just think I'm another teenager skipping through life in a carefree daze.

Well, they're right. Because I'm going to see my best friend and he's going to be _smiling_ , and how could I have any worries or cares if that's how it's going to be? So I run and let the wind lift my footsteps, feel the grass and dirt spring with each leap, and resist the urge to throw my arms out wide and shout. Just barely. I have a little bit more sensibility than that!

It's not far to his new home from here, so if I put a bit more power into my legs, I'll be there in no time. Things like that have been easier of late -- even now, maintaining a speed like this is effortless -- but that's not surprising. I'm a Puella Magi now, after all! It must be part of the deal.

Around this corner, up this hill, down the next, another corner -- these nice new neighbourhoods compartmentalise like mazes. I'll have to get him to show me shortcuts and side-streets when he's feeling better. We can go exploring and run around without having to worry about curfew or his dad getting mad at us for no reason. We can go to the park, buy some ice cream from the vendor near the swings... maybe we can even bring his mom along too.

She seems like a really nice person. She _definitely_ seems better than his dad ever was, so I'm sure we can all be friends. Yeah, we're gonna get along just great, and it's going to be awesome.

His house appears when I turn the next corner, sitting like some sort of mansion at the top of the hill, and I can't help it when I start to go even faster. I can't wait to see him. It's been almost three weeks now, since his mom's been so busy with all sorts of paperwork and he's been in the hospital getting his head looked at. Jenon knows more about all this legal garbage than I do, and he told me that my friend took a hard hit to head shortly before the police caught his father. Something about 'really damning evidence'.

To be honest, I don't care about all the little details like that. All I know is the blood all over the place, hiding in his red thick hair and dripping out onto his face like tears. All I know is that he's doing better, he's all bandaged up, and that it's never going to happen again.

I really can't wait to see him.

This hopscotch world whistles past, the wind sings -- and suddenly it all inverts itself in an explosion impossibly bright colours that have no place on a day so sunny as this. The clouds turn to black spiked balls that swing precariously in wide circles and the air is a shimmering, vomitous orange. Everything flips in on itself; I'm running on sky, legs kicking against nothing, and if I look up at the ground, it is like a writhing purple ribbon into which I could smash at any moment.

Terror consumes me like a dark huge lake, even if I'm standing here just fine and not about to fall into anything. Ground above and open air below and every way I look makes me dizzy. Breathing in deeply does not help; where the wind was fresh and clean but seconds ago, everything tastes heavy and noxious. Acutely, violently, I feel ill.

This must be what Pamela meant, then, about witches' worlds, and how they offend every sense.

After she made me a Puella Magi, she didn't really explain all the details well. She said it would make more sense when I was actually fighting and that doing is better than learning -- stuff like that. I think she mentioned a few other things too, but my mind is spinning too much for me to remember. What sticks is that, at the time, I believed her.

Right now, I can't even breathe.

I'm going to start falling. I'm really, truly going to start falling.

I remember she said I'd be fighting, that of course things would be a little bit dangerous, but she didn't-- she didn't mention-- this. Open void, open nothing, open gut as my stomach roils over and fair falls out. I can't even see the witch I'm supposed to be battling, and already it feels like every inch of fight has fled my bones. I haven't been here for more than ten seconds, and already, it feels so hard to remember a sky that is blue and safe and warm.

The wind picks up again, but not because it is a gentle spring breeze; it's because I'm moving at last, gaining speed as I spiral towards that wide purple curtain of writhing grass beneath me, and it unfolds like waiting arms to welcome me into its embrace. Skittering things flick past me through the air to sting my skin and bite at my eyes -- were those there before? Perhaps they are a herald of the witch herself.

Not that it matters with the ground hungrily opening its mouth beneath me. There's even a thick fat tongue rising up from the sea of colour below, this streak of dazzling pink amongst poison violets and oil slick blacks.

"Hey, hey, heyyyy~!" it shouts. If I hadn't lost my breath already, I'm pretty sure it would have gone flying right out of me then, like the billowing of a gasp or a hard punch to the stomach.

Because that blob flies up, breaks forth from the curling tendrils that were wrapped around it once, rises up in a burst of sparks and catches me right out of the air in hands that are soft and human and warm as they spin me around and sweep me up in arms. Suddenly, quite suddenly, I'm not falling at all, and the little black things have halted their assault, instead keeping their distance to circle around us in wide arcs. Us. _Us_.

"That's not how you do it, silly!"

"...hi Pamela," I manage, somewhat breathless with residual fright.

Looking down at me with a brilliant smile and sparkling eyes is Pamela, bright pink hat carelessly askew and manner so unruffled that you'd never have guessed she just came bursting right through the teeth of danger in a situation like this. The foul air and creepy colours don't seem to have affected her at all. Inwardly, beneath my wildly beating heart, a little bubble of jealousy pops up in my chest.

I can't say that's terribly surprising, though, since Pamela was the person who made me a Puella Magi in the first place. She must be used to stumbling into witches' nests and dealing with this sort of thing all the time. Maybe that means I'll adjust too someday, but right now, I'm still trying to slow my breathing down from rough-edged ragged, so I'm just going to enjoy this respite as she supports me and lets the two of us float freely in space.

"Siskier, Siiiskier," she trills with a cluck of the tongue and a quick shake of the head, "what does a Puella Magi do?"

"Fight... witches...?"

"Noooo no no no no! Before that!!"

Feeling a little bit confused, I close my eyes, thinking back to when she first appeared and explained the rules to me -- what it meant to be a Puella Magi, and to fight to protect what I love.

"A Puella Magi is a magical girl who fights witches and saves people from harm~!" she'd said. Her gestures had been animated, light, consuming her whole body with motion as she danced about and illustrated all of her points. Her fingers had spelled out magic, and her skipping and darting had framed a lovely mimicry of the elegance of fighting -- and it had been enticing, so enticing, to follow after her with curious eyes.

Then she'd turned and walked away as if on tightrope, arms outstretched into the night. The tips of her fingers were swallowed in the darkness beyond the circle of the streetlight, and it had eaten up the rest of her in little nibbles with every step. When she had whirled again to face me, she was far enough beyond the light that I could barely see her face beneath the rim of her hat; only the pale glimmer of her teeth in a perfect half-moon had let me know that she was smiling.

"And you know what magical girls do, right?"

Then, suddenly, with a start that makes me snap open my eyes, I figure out exactly what it is she means. Pamela is still looking silently down upon me, waiting for my answer, and the swarm of swirling black around us has quieted down -- where could they have gone, I wonder distantly? -- but I am not paying attention to either. Surely, gently, _lightly_ , I bring my hands together and brush my fingers over the pretty yellow ring that graces one of them, unassuming in its simple metal band.

After all, I'm a Puella Magi, and that's simply just another type of magical girl. I watched enough of those girlish cartoons as a child for me to know what should come next, even if it seems like just about the silliest thing in the world. The ring at my finger glows as if in response, suddenly warm against my skin.

High above, looking down, it's as if she can tell just by looking at me that I've figured it out. Pamela smiles wider still, wider even than when I agreed to be a Puella Magi, and she laughs. "Aha~! I knew you wouldn't let Pamela down."

Beaming as if with great pride, she sets me down upon the open air, and with a reassuring pat on the shoulder, she lets go. A few minutes ago, this would have been terrifying -- but not now, not with knowledge of what I have to do resting warm within my heart. So long as I focus on that and not how far away the ground is or how the sky below stretches into forever, I'll be fine. I am going to be just fine.

When I remove the ring from my finger, it does not so much slip off as float up into the air in a burst of pale yellow light, haloed by an opening flower with five petals spreading to glimmer and shine. Against this harsh, orange sky, a daffodil so natural is refreshing like nothing else.

It makes me smile. I cannot _help_ but smile.

Then descends a lightness in all my limbs, an unfurling of every finger and every toe, a relaxing of the spine as it curves and my head drifts back after it, my body unfolding like a flag in a growing breeze as the wind blows through wide open me. I am immaterial. With nothing to support them, my clothes vanish in great puffs, but I don't feel naked -- there is a shimmering warmth wrapping around me and holding me up, and it's as natural as the colour of the flower that is floating still before my face.

The fabric that bursts into being against my skin is cool and soft and curls in light layers that snap together along seams efficiently, effortlessly, as if settling into a place where they have always belonged. Long thin gloves spiral up from my fingers to hug my arms, and boots their twins rise from my toes. The leggings like shorts are as small sparks next to the firecracker of skirt that explodes in a swirl about my hips. The shirt is like an afterthought, then, a fainter swish as it tightens neatly against my chest, and then no more.

But in spite of all this, sensation after sensation blooming all around me and wrapping me up, they are all as nothing, faint and retreating, in comparison to the tiny little pin that hooks into my hair and unfolds with a beating like a tremulous heart. It is warm and strangely heavy for its size, and it catches my attention so effortlessly that I only notice the pop of two earrings because they prick at my ears with slight pain.

I do not know why, but I can intimately trace the outline of this barrette in my mind even before my fingers rise up of their own accord to stroke its shape: a pretty white flower with five soft petals that ripple at the slightest breeze, and a blue like the sea for the gem they embrace. Even without seeing it, I know that is lovely. To be cherished. Even if I know not why.

That is curious, in a way, but it is only a tiny gem set into a soft fabric flower, and there are more exciting things to captivate my consideration -- so my hands fall away after but a moment and instead swoop down in wide arcs to my sides, fingers bursting open like release.

It holds. Relaxes. And then that, as they say, is that. Why?

Because I am a Puella Magi, a magical girl, and what would a role like that be without a mysterious transformation? These clothes are like nothing I've ever worn; a skirt this short, a top this revealing, unattached sleeves that look downright _silly_ on anyone who isn't fictional. In spite of that, I really like it. It feels non-restrictive, easy to move around in. Free. That'll probably be good if I'm going to be fighting, since I can't imagine I'm going to be much of a powerhouse, no matter how much running in the park I do.

This outfit, at the very least, is pretty much what I was expecting it to be -- not that I gave much thought to things like this when I first agreed to become a Puella Magi. But I can't say I noticed very many flashing lights or scintillating sparkles or drifting bubbles of colour, like they always show decorating the background of a proper magical girl transformation. None of that's real, though. I suppose fiction can't get everything right.

When I touch back down against the air as if it is solid, settling on my feet against formless nothing, I can't help but do a delighted little spin. My skirt swirls at my knees and the wind of the motion kisses my stomach, my breasts, my shoulders, my back. I feel _great_. When I stop and smile up at Pamela, who is watching from a slight distance as she floats just above my height, she claps her hands and pumps one fist into the air, flashing a smile and two thumbs up in unison as a seal to her dance of approval.

"Now thaaat's more like it! Super cool~"

And maybe I'm imagining it, maybe I'm not, but her smile opens wider, baring teeth that gleam in this orange witch's light, and her arms are cast out as if in rapturous decree when she says: "You can do this, Siskier. Go go gooo!!"

And so I do.

Everything about me feels light, effortless, almost as if I am power without form or matter to drag me down. I feel like I can do-- anything. Where once this open space was a trap to suck me in and drown me, now I feel like I could dance across it and walk on air, so long as I do not look up or down for too long. The power of a Puella Magi is wonderful; for even if I do not know the limits of the magic I have been granted, even if I cannot yet bend it to my will, I feel like I could fly.

It's wonderful, even if it's something I'd rather not have and rather not feel. Not that it matters now. There's a witch to hunt, a witch to catch, and a neighbourhood of people to save from her ravenous grasp.

Now that I think about it, Pamela mentioned that witches like to target humans, whether in large groups or as individuals, and to lead them to their deaths. This witch is probably intent upon devouring this whole entire residential district, if she's set her nest up at the top of this hill.

And... this is where my friend lives. In a mansion right at that summit. So, for his sake, I cannot lose this fight.

Before I can defeat her and put the power that Pamela promised to the test, I have to find where she is. Looking all around, I survey this twisted world: inverted sky, poisonous land, clouds like weapons, infinity stretching into a helpless orange forever. The only other things in sight are those sting black wisps, and-- hey!

I could have sworn there were more of them here before, when I was falling and couldn't think straight. They were everywhere, constantly attacking, biting at my skin and eyes and everything of me that they could reach. Even when Pamela was there to drive them off, they were still circling us, however distantly. So where could they all be now...?

I look around. I see nothing. But there's something in my stomach that tells me I'm on the right track, thinking about those black things. If I can find them, I'm sure they'll lead me to where the witch is hiding.

All my life, people have told me that I have good eyes and good ears: seeing things I shouldn't, hearing things I can't, finding out the details like some sort of scout or spy. I doubt there's any magic that gives you good vision -- not that I'd be able to use it, anyway -- but I shouldn't need any help. Not with this, something I'm already good at on my own. I don't need to be a Puella Magi to do _everything_!

So I look around again with narrowed eyes and hold my breath, concentrating as fiercely as I can. That's when I start to see it: that the air is shimmering slightly, hazy like a desert mirage, waves of refraction drifting-- closer--!

I leap backwards with all of the power in my legs, kicking off against the nothingness of the unfolding sky, and go absolutely _flying_ from the spot where I'd been standing mere moments before, just in time to feel the great whistling wind of some sort of attack crashing down beyond the tips of my retreating toes. A roar more like a screech than anything else slices right after it to cut at my ears and make me feel just a little bit dizzy.

Maybe it's because I've already noticed her or maybe it's because she's angry now, but the witch appears like the sizzle of a heat wave in the air, fading into view so suddenly that it's like she was never invisible. Trailing smoke, dripping with roiling clumps of black that roll off and circle up again to join the whole -- this witch is like a great huge phantom, an enormous shadow, with edges that blur and a body that shifts through colours too quickly for it to seem anything other than a sickly dark brown that is utterly unnatural and utterly _wrong_. It's like the rest of this world; an image of a ghost taken up and flipped over into something that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

It's wrong. That thing is _wrong_. And it's going to hurt others, my friends, me, so I cannot allow it to exist any longer. For a moment, it's not just about being a Puella Magi, for as even a mere human, it is abhorrent to me, and I know that it must be destroyed. There is something sad and small crying within my stomach, telling me that it is so.

It's enough that even when faced with something so huge and terrifying, I don't feel scared. Determination firms my heart and warms me up all over; even if this isn't confidence or arrogance lighting up in all my limbs, it has its own sort of strength. Calmly, distantly -- is this a Puella Magi thing? -- I know that it will be enough.

As I breathe in a sharp deep breath, the witch does not stand idle. Propelled by fury and with claws outstretched does it come to meet me, and for something that has no mouth, the howling that it makes is haunting and unearthly.

But I am ready, and instinct kicks me forward to approach on a strafing angle, curving along like the far-away black clouds swinging in the sky below. It's not just that common sense tells me not to approach head on, for fear of being crushed like some sort of feel, because it's deeper than that, warmer than that, like a gentle tug to pull me in the right direction. I know. I just-- know. It's like how my feet can find purchase here even with nothing to rest on, or how this clothing simply appeared when I took off my ring.

And even further, even faster, I know too to snap my right arm out behind and clamp my fingers down as something materialises in my hand in a dazzling burst. There's no time to examine it, no time to look back, just intuition as I swing it forward and release the bolt and am launched back by the strength with which it fires. And for someone who has never before shot a projectile in my life, my carelessly untaken aim is uncanny.

Something bright with a white like pearls shines forth and streaks away so quickly that its path cannot be traced, and it _slams_ into the witch with a great rending tear of a noise, shearing away the arm that was reaching out to grab me up. Spun away by the impact, the witch reels in circles through the air and thrashes about, scattering black ink drops everywhere so quickly that they cannot immediately fly back to rejoin the core. The chunk that was cut loose falls away like smoke in a breeze, drifting downward and disintegrating into nothing.

While it is distracted by trying to right itself, I take the pause afforded to look down at the solid object resting warm in my hand. It's a crossbow of some sort, that much I can tell, even if I know nothing else about it. The string is unloaded, relaxed, empty, but without thinking I lay my hands against it and haul back.

Another bolt that glows like the moon appears in the space that trails after my fingers, and it is with motions that are achingly _familiar_ that I lock it down in place. Hands that have never touched something so ancient and capable of death make all of the appropriate adjustments, almost too quickly for my unskilled eye to follow, and before the witch is recovered from spinning topsy-turvy, I am holding the crossbow up once more, trigger at the ready as my gaze slopes down the length of its ammunition and takes sight against the heaving mass that roils in the distance.

It's moving enough that no human should be able to strike home, not when it is so far away, but that does not stop me. I let go and it's like releasing a bolt of lightning, so dazzling and swift is its brilliance.

Another chunk of the witch is punched away; again it rolls, struggling to gather up its parts and hold itself together. Each bolt I fire makes a brand new hole and pushes it back, until I have to run after it if I want to have a chance of hitting anything, but it is easily that I chase it it with fleet-footed leaps across the sky.

Bang, bang, bang. Shriek, scream, wail. The residual pieces that slough off all dissolve away in wisps that the wind eats up in hungry gulps. Nibble by nibble, bite by bite, it disappears.

Soon, all I am left with is one little knot of dark shifting colours, writhing around as if with pain as I cautiously approach and point one last bolt down at it. From this distance, I realise abruptly what it is I'm looking at: a conglomerate of all those hundreds of thousands of biting black specks from before. All along, this witch has been nothing more than a great cloud of flies moving in unison to eat me whole.

That's pretty gross. I have to suppress a bit of a shudder, but it is with no hesitation at all that I trip the trigger, and from a range this close, the overwhelming blast of shattering white obliterates what is left in an instant.

Just like that, the world flips over again, and I land on both feet against the sure safe beautiful solidity of a sloping pavement road.

For a moment I cannot see cannot breathe cannot hear cannot _think_. There is a soft fresh spring breeze to lift the ends of my hair, refreshing beyond measure to lungs starved of clean air. Warm sunlight kisses my shoulders. And the sky is blue and the ground is down and everything is so right and beautiful and pure that I could just throw my arms up above my head and start shouting from joy.

I am brought back to myself by the sudden thunder of clapping and a cheerful voice shouting _yay~!_ over and over again. Turning on light feet, fair skipping, I whirl towards Pamela, who is standing a little ways up the hill at my back and applauding delightedly. Her smile is enormous and tinged around the edges as if with great pride when she comes bouncing down to meet me and does not stop, does not slow her hands, and does not let her grin slip down from _huge_ when she begins to speak.

"Yay yay Siskier~ Pamela knew you could do it. You're gonna be a great Puella Magi!"

I can't help but laugh back a bit breathlessly; I feel so giddy and light-headed right now, almost like there really isn't rock-hard tarmac at my feet. I did it. I really did it. I fought that witch to save everyone in this neighbourhood and I _won_.

Reality returns by degrees even as Pamela congratulates me, but I don't mind. I'm too busy riding thrills. When my magical outfit fades away in the gentlest of puffs, more like peeling away to reveal my usual clothing underneath than disappearing like a firework as it did before, I hardly notice, save for the sudden cool touch of the ring against my finger once more.

"I tooold you you'd know just what to do, see? It's easy, right?"

"Yeah!"

"And you know what you gotta do next time, right?"

"Yeah!"

She beams. I return it. Then she drops her hands and swings them out and walks away stretched out like a tightrope walker with bouncing steps, back down the hill with her eyes at her feet as she talks: "that's about all there is to it! You fight the witch~ you win~ and everyone is saved~! But oh, oh, oh, there's just one more thing to remember."

Stooping suddenly, she plucks something up off the street and comes running back to me to drop it into my hand. It is a tiny metal needle that looks almost like an elongated spinning top, and it is very heavy for something so small. To be utterly, instinctively honest, I don't like it, and it makes a shiver skitter down my back.

"That's a Grief Seed. You'll find those whenever you beat a witch! Just touch 'em to your Soul Gem to regain your magic. You don't wanna run out, right?"

No wonder it feels so-- wrong. If this thing is the remnant of a witch, of course it's evil. I'm not sure I want to go around collecting these, but if Pamela says to, then I guess I'll just have to listen.

So, obligingly, I slip the yellow ring from my finger and let it blossom open in the palm of my hand once more. This time, it makes no flower of light; instead a round decorated gem appears, like a fancy egg set into a delicate metal-work base. This is my Soul Gem, the source of my power -- the gift that Pamela gave to me when she turned me into a Puella Magi. When I press the bulb of the Grief Seed against it, both glow softly for a moment, and when they fade, there is something about it that seems even worse than before. The skin on my fingers feels like it's crawling, writhing, trying to shimmy away from contact with something that is so _wrong_. Could it be that the magic was blocking out all that witch's evil and rendering it more like a little piece of metal with a funny shape and a too-sharp tip, and nothing more? I don't know. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to touch it at all.

"Now it's myyy turn!" Pamela says, and with no warning at all, she plucks the Grief Seed from my fingers, tilts back her head, and _pops_ it into her mouth with an easy flick. Even more easily than that, she swallows it whole.

Honestly, I can't help but stare a bit. Even if that thing was as weird as anything and I'm glad that it's gone... that sure was something else.

"Wha-a-aaat?" she trills. Laughing. "They're tasty!"

And who am I to judge another for what they like to eat? That'd just be mean. So I try to think nothing of it as I smile and nod. Not that it's terribly difficult; I'm standing here mostly out of politeness, now, and my thoughts are thoroughly elsewhere, drifting away from me with my distracted attention. It's probably really obvious, as the look Pamela is giving me right now is one of seemingly uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, and her eyes are bright as if with mischief.

"And that's it! That's all you've gotta do. But Pamela's only gonna help you this once, okay? So don't hesitate like that again!!"

I won't. I don't even have to say that I won't. Although I don't notice it at first, my hand against my side is clenched in determination, and I'm sure it's shining plain in my eyes and the sloping line of my lips. I am Siskier, a Puella Magi, and I won't need her to come flying up to save me next time.

She must be able to read the resolute beating of my heart, because she flips a thumbs-up and smiles back at me with easy confidence. I'm not sure why, but there's something almost too huge about it, like there's too much of a curl at the corners of her lips, but when I blink, I can't find it anymore.

Maybe it's just me. Her smiles are always so wide, so bright with teeth. That's just how she is.

"You wanna beat lotsa witches, right? Better be caaareful~!"

And with a happy, energetic wave, she says her goodbyes and leaves. I look after her bright retreating back for a moment, watching as she skips down the street and vanishes around the corner, before turning back up the hill, towards that mansion at the top.

I was going to see my friend before I was so rudely interrupted, and if I don't get going, I'll probably be late. Even after fighting a witch like that, doing so much running and falling and leaping and tumbling, my legs don't feel tired -- so I go off at a dash again, just like I was on my way here, and eat the sidewalk up in long bites. With all my speed.

Because it's a spring day today, and I couldn't be any happier. There are birds and a bright blue sky above me as if the whole world is singing out in celebration. And I just beat my first witch -- I just saved my friend's life -- and now I'm going to see him for the first time in over three weeks, so that is just fine by me.

 

The run up the rest of the hill takes no time at all, and I'm so eager to see him that I haven't even come to a complete stop before I hit the doorbell. I know he doesn't like knocking because it reminds him of his father, so I take a moment to rest and do a bit of breathing with my hands braced against my knees.

I feel loose enough all over that it almost seems like I should be stretching, or needing to gulp down some of this good clean air, but even after all that happened on the way here, I honestly don't feel tired. That's good. I'd hate to have to lie to him if he were to ask me why I was so winded. I know he'd believe me if I were to tell him the truth, but... I don't want to. I don't want him to know what I'm doing. He's the sort of person who would get all worried and tell me not to do something so dangerous, because that's just the kind of good guy that he is.

While I'm all distracted thinking about things like that, the door opens at last. I bounce up to face the woman who is standing behind it with one slender hand braced against the wood, and I feel -- relieved. Immediately, immeasurably, all the way down through my heart relieved.

Because the way she's smiling at me, a _stranger_ , is so tender and genuine and warm that all of the dark murky lurking doubts that I'd been too afraid to even think quietly dissipate away. Everything about her gives an impression of soft gentleness: her long white hair, the faint wrinkles of her face, the blue of her eyes, the curving of her lips, her plain long dress. Every little detail sings patient, caring, _motherly_.

In that instant, I know that my friend really is in good hands at last.

"Hello," she says, and even her voice is beautiful; "you must be Siskier."

After a moment that's just a bit too long, I remember myself, and return her smile with a bright one of my own as I nod and bow quickly in greeting. "Yep, that's me! I'm..."

I can't help but trail off. Suddenly, insidiously, a little bubble of nervousness pops within my stomach. But the woman in front of me takes this in stride easily; although I would not have said it possible, her smile softens yet further, and really is just about the sweetest and most gentle thing I've ever seen.

"My name is Baretreenu. As you have probably guessed, I am Gulcasa's mother. You are here to see him, I presume?"

" _Yes_ ," I say. I don't even have to think about it. The answer just snaps out on its own.

She opens the door and steps aside, ushering me in with a hand that lands lightly against my elbow. "I will go, ah, see if he is feeling well enough to come downstairs. He is... still recovering. I am sure you know this much better than I."

I nod again, because my mouth is suddenly a bit too dry for proper speech. It's been over three weeks since the police rescued him from his father, and with Baretreenu I know he is in good hands, but... he was stuck with his father for so long. Too long, even, I sometimes fear. A measly few weeks aren't going to be long enough to change something, especially not if _forever_ might not be either. Baretreenu and I share a look with what I suspect are identical expressions, and she gives my arm a quick reassuring squeeze just once before she disappears down the hall.

Thus am I left standing alone by the door, with my hands twisting nervously against my stomach. I am anxious enough that it takes me a moment to realise that I have not yet removed my shoes, so for something to do, I stoop down and quickly do so.

And when I look back up, I find myself nearly face to face with a tiny young girl, who is peeping around a doorframe in such a way that she looks more bright red pigtails than human child. For a moment, I am frozen. She steps out into the hall with careful steps and her fingers pressed against her mouth, so that only her enormous golden eyes are visible, and after a moment of neither of us doing anything, she blurts out: "are you Siskier?"

"Yeah," I say, nodding and bowing in quick succession, one shoe still clenched up tight in nervous fingers. "Um, I'm sorry, but you're...?"

"I'm Emilia!" It comes out like an escaping chirp, slipping out from between her fingers as she drops them to her sides and bounces forward; "I'm Gulcasa's sister!"

Again, I freeze. "Sister...?" I whisper, feeling caught completely off-guard. He has a sister? Why did he never mention that?

"Yup! He didn't know either. But that's okay 'cause we're together now and he's gonna be the best big brother ever!"

There are a lot of holes in that explanation, little things glossed over enough that I still don't know exactly what's going on, but she can't be more than ten years old, so I don't blame her for giving a somewhat fragmented answer. I don't doubt that she's telling the truth, and from what I know of their father, I wouldn't put it past him to have another child hidden away somewhere and never tell Gulcasa about it. That's just the sort of cruel and terrible thing that he'd do. Involuntarily, my fist clenches convulsively around the shoe I haven't yet put down; as an afterthought, I drop it down beside its twin, and return my attention to Emilia.

I guess she's another victim of that horrid man. Another person saved by Baretreenu. She looks much healthier than Gulcasa ever did, though: there are no bandages or bruises to mar her cheeks or her thin short shins where they peek out from beneath the hem of her skirt, and there is a bright cheerful ease to all of her motions that is not weighted down like Gulcasa always was. She seems-- normal. Healthy. Just a regular preteen girl.

I can't even begin to imagine how good it will be for Gulcasa to have someone like this around to hold him when things get too tough to handle. Between Emilia and Baretreenu, he must be in good hands. He _must_.

And speaking of Gulcasa.

"So, uh... how. How is he?" I stammer out after a moment of the two of us just sort of looking at each other and not saying anything.

Immediately, her expression grows dark around the edges, tiny lips drawing back into an angry hurting frown, and my heart falls out and lands in my stomach with a nauseating _splash_. But instead of saying anything, giving word to the emotions writ plain upon her face, she shakes her head fiercely enough to set her pigtails flying and grabs at my hand.

She's dragging me down the hall before I've even realised her intentions, and her young slim back offers up no words of comfort at all. "I'm gonna let you see him," she says, almost as an afterthought, not looking back towards me as she continues to soldier on; "they're probably gonna be in the living room. I'll take you. Sometimes Mom thinks about Gulcasa so much that she forgets to do stuff like bringin' guests inside. That's why I gotta help her out!"

There's a note like pride in her voice, fierce and true. Even if we've only just met, I like her. She seems like a good kid.

After pushing me down onto a sofa with her own two hands and dusting them off with great satisfaction, she departs with bouncing steps, saying that she's going to go make sure her mother and brother are okay. They'll be back soon, she promises.

It's only when she's not here anymore that I realise just how good a job she'd been doing at distracting me from worrying about Gulcasa. Sitting alone in this empty room, with its furniture that is far too nice and its paint that is far too pretty, all I can do is twist my fingers up in knots and stare down at them like they're going to give me answers. And they're answers I'm not entirely sure I want, truth be told.

But that doesn't stop me from looking up quickly enough to make my neck hurt and leaping to my feet at the first sound of footsteps. Heart in throat, I blink at Emilia as she steps into the room with a gait that betrays no particular emotion, hands clasped behind her back and eyes fixed straight ahead. Baretreenu comes next, drifting with great elegance, her body half turned and her arms outstretched to the person behind her, and then.

Then shuffles in Gulcasa.

He's looking right up at me with wide gold eyes, and I'd forgotten how good it was, to see his face without any bruises on it. With clean fresh bandages wrapped like love around healing wounds, rather than fresh ones.

"Siskier," he says, and I haven't heard him speak that clearly in far too long.

Even if I've been bent towards this moment ever since I first stepped outside this morning, and even if I fought through a witch to get here, for one long moment, I cannot move. I feel like I'm underwater, plunging down into something cool and dark that wraps all around me. Automation catches; it is only consciously that I breathe, in and out.

Because the relief from before is as _nothing_ next to the deluge of emotions that is descending upon me now. Without talking to him, without stepping closer, without doing anything at all, I know.

He's getting better.

It is written all over his body, from the way that his face falls along neutral lines and his eyes hold steady upon me, blinking at measured intervals and not flickering about as if seeking harm. Though still tense, slightly hunched down, there is a looseness in all of his limbs that speaks of _easing_ , even if it does not yet sing of ease. His steps too are different -- lighter, distinct, rather than a shuffled slide across the carpeted floor.

He's moving like a person would -- albeit a person still in great pain -- instead of like a wounded lion or a trap waiting to be sprung. His fingers rest splayed against his thighs, rather than curled up into fists. In a calm and unhurried manner, he breathes.

I am not so foolish or optimistic as to think that this is it, everything is better, and that all those years of agony beneath his father's hands have been wiped clean, but looking at him now, I feel an easing in my heart. There will always be shadows here, always always always, but in this warm household with hands that hold light, I know things will improve. The pain's not gone, but it's _better_ , and that means more to me than anything else in this world.

I breathe. I breathe. For his sake, I must stay calm; I don't want to startle him with my excitement or my joy. Anything but that.

"Hi," I whisper, and it slips away from me on a reedy exhale so buoyed up with relief that it sails clean and true across the room, even if it was so very quiet.

"Siskier," he says again. He walks towards me with sure heavy slow steps and I just can't help it; can't help my smile, can't help the bright sudden blurring of my vision misting up with tears, cannot help opening up my arms and wrapping them gently around his shoulders when he steps into their welcoming circle. My hands find his hair and smooth it down with long reassuring strokes, careful to keep my fingers light and free from catching on anything, since I know that hurts him more than just about anything else. He accepts the gesture with grace and comfort, and his face makes its home nestled down against my shoulder.

Then from beside him, Emilia and Baretreenu step forward, with the first on feet that bounce to announce her coming and the latter in smooth unthreatening strides. They circle around behind me so as to be plain in his view, and then in the slowest and most careful of motions, they wrap their arms around the knot that we two have already formed.

For a while, we all four just stand there and breathe, hearts slowing down to beat in unison. It is the most loving embrace that I have ever shared in the whole of my life. Dimly, distantly, I'm aware that we're all crying, and that there's fat damp spots all over my shirt, but as I press my face into his thick red hair, I could not care less.

This-- this is family. This is what he needs, more than anything else in this world.

And now, now and forever, this is what he has.

But we can only huddle together and cry for so long before our arms get cramped and the streaks of tears on our cheeks begin to feel funny, so after a time we all pull back and look at each other. My hands are still petting at his hair, over and over again, even if its roughness has started to wear at my fingers; and I am intimately aware of how Baretreenu's hand is resting lightly as his shoulder in a token like comfort, and how Emilia is holding on loosely to the hem of his shirt.

Even in spite of all of this contact, we are careful to give him his space. He still seems a bit overwhelmed by it all, unable to stop crying no matter how often he drags his sleeves across his eyes.

"It's... really good to see you," he manages at last. His voice is thick and heavy, but he does not choke, and he enunciates each word with calm deliberate purpose. I'm smiling again, grinning like a fool, and even if it's a bit weak and watery around the edges, he smiles back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Baretreenu is surveying us thoughtfully with eyes that do not blink, and that she is smiling too, in that gentle soft motherly way that she first used to greet me back at the door. With a delicate cough, she clears her throat, and waits until Gulcasa is looking right at her to speak.

"I believe I shall leave you three be. If you are in need of anything... please, do not hesitate to let me know."

"I'll send all of the messages!" Emilia chirps immediately, bouncing on her heels and wiggling her fingers excitedly in front of her face.

Because I am still focusing so heavily upon him, I notice immediately that Gulcasa tenses at the sudden loud sound, and that his fingers instinctively tighten against his sleeves. I know these signs so well, _too_ well, and my heart leaps in a spinning spiral of a dive into my stomach-- but that is all. Where once that might have been too much or have made him snap, he shuts his eyes against it. He breathes. His fingers uncurl.

And it passes. He opens his eyes, bright and gold and clear, turns to look at Emilia, and drops one hand down against her shoulder. "Thanks, Emilia," he says with a smile.

And that's-- it's a miracle, really. I remember all too well just how many years he spent growing worse and worse, unable to deal with darkness or sound or anything that would remind him of home. No matter how he'd fought to regain control and no matter how tightly I would wrap him up in my arms, it had never been enough to tame his instincts or his fear. That he did so now, with not so much as an involuntary lash of the arm -- that says so much. Sure Emilia sounds nothing like his father, with a voice so high and clear, but that does not demean the strength he just displayed, here and now. It doesn't make it any less of a miracle.

So too is the hand he has reached out to Emilia -- a gesture so significant, even if she probably sees it as absolutely ordinary. Smiling, I give them space.

Looking down at them and stepping back, it hits me hard in the chest that they really do look like siblings. It's not just their matching hair or the twinned gold eyes: it's how easily his hand is resting where it is, like it simply _belongs_ , and how trustingly hers rises up to rest fingers at its back. Even if they haven't known about each other for very long, already do they fit together.

I look back over my shoulder, unable to really bring myself to intrude upon what suddenly feels like an intensely private moment -- only to be struck by the hammer of emotion that is the look on Baretreenu's face as she watches those two. There's so much there that I cannot put a name to any of it.

It's irrevocable, that sort of love; the kind that leaves you breathless and unable to speak. She'll be a good mom.

If she planned on saying anything more, she does not. With a slow gathering as if of the wits, she composes herself, and bowing politely to me, she quietly slips away back down the hall. And it's then that I realise too how careful Baretreenu is being to move slowly and speak quietly and do absolutely nothing to startle Gulcasa, and the thought warms my heart so much that it feels like it might erupt.

Because the thing is... he was treated very badly at the hands of his father. Really, really badly. There was never more than two days in a row when he would come to school without fresh bruises and cuts peppering his body, wrapped in bandages that were more designed to conceal the severity of his wounds than to shield them from infection. It's been that way for a long, long time -- far longer than I can remember -- so even if it's horrible to say, it really is rather understandable that his soul started to shrivel up and blacken within his chest after being scorched so constantly by so much abuse.

For years, none of us were able to do anything about it. No matter how often he flew into panics at school or how badly he got hurt, we never had the power to get anyone to do anything about it. Gulcasa was always too scared and hurt and confused to say anything, and interrogation from any sort of authority would inevitably reduce him to sobbing incoherency.

It was awful, it was awful, and with every day, it grew a little worse. He couldn't deal with anyone, except for Jenon and me, and that-- it was horrible, that powerlessness.

But it's over now. Because I became a Puella Magi, and in exchange for that, Pamela agreed to set him free. At the time, I couldn't have said if I believed her or not; she seemed so mysterious, magical, utterly strange, that I cannot remember my first impression of her very clearly. But I swore to fight witches and she swore that my wish to save him would be granted, and... it was.

I don't know how she did it, or even if she was the one to do anything. All I know is what Jenon explained to me later, since he's always much wiser when it comes to things like this: that Gulcasa's father was arrested, that he's going to be living with his mother from now on -- that he's free.

Just like I wished that he would be.

Looking at him now, holding hands with Emilia and smiling down at her gently without saying a word, while she looks back up at him as if he is the most perfect thing she has ever seen -- it's gratifying and relieving like absolutely nothing else. He deserves that adoration. He _deserves_ it. Because that sort of love has been denied to him for too long.

But it does not hold forever, because Emilia cannot be much more than nine years old, and as with all children that young, she eventually gets the wiggles. While she does not cast off Gulcasa's hand or anything like that, she does at last break gaze, and turn her eyes to look at me expectently.

"Soooo," she says, light and conversational; "now what are you gonna do, Siskier? Are we gonna play some games?"

She sounds eager, hopeful, utterly delighted. She is just a kid, after all. These three weeks are probably the first time she's ever had a sibling, judging by how she has moulded herself to him and delights in his presence like a bonfire blazing high. She probably has all sorts of expectations and desires; things to do, things to see, things to learn, to _experience_ , like a little checklist on the backs of her eyes.

Gulcasa's not ready to take up that role properly yet, not now, and for his sake, something so boisterous as roughhousing cannot be tolerated. The time for such fun is later, when he's better, and shadows do not haunt every motion that crosses his vision. For now, we'll have to settle on something else.

"I dunno... I don't think Gulcasa's up for something like that? Why don't we... why don't we sit down. And... talk." I turn to him with eyes alight and carefully gauge the minute ways in which his expression changes, beyond his notice and jurisdiction. "Is that okay?"

He nods, if somewhat imperceptibly, and nervously sits down at the end of one of the couches. Even though he lives here now, there is an awkwardness to the motion that belies how newly come he is to a place where comfy furniture is a luxury that he can actually use. His shoulders are slightly hunched and his gaze is cast down towards the floor, stray pieces of hair falling loose across his face. He looks-- fragile. And lonely. But I dare not sit too close.

I settle instead on the couch that rests across from his, and as if taking a thoughtful clue, Emilia chooses the armchair perpendicular to us both, so that we three form a sort of square with one side lopped off. Baretreenu could be sitting there, I think. She's not because she wants to give us time to be alone.

So I look at him, _really look at him_ , and absorb all details of this moment before I begin to speak.

There isn't much to say, to be entirely honest. I tell him about what we're learning in school, what Jenon is up to, what some of the other students are doing, news from my own home -- stuff like that. Simple stuff. He looks up at me when I speak and listens with such intensity that it seems like he has stopped blinking, but for the most part, he says nothing; merely breathes, steadily in and out, and rests his lightly curled fists against his knees. It is Emilia who does all of the talking, asking questions about everyone and everything with the bright and genuine curiosity of the completely sincere. This is her new brother's life, after all, if told through the voice of another. She probably cannot wait to learn about it, and make a piece of it her own.

Time passes slowly when I'm the only one really speaking, and my throat is starting to feel ragged and sore, but I don't stop. I won't stop. I lock eyes with Gulcasa and tell him everything I can think to say, sitting there a good six feet separate from him and longing for nothing more than-- than to hold his hand.

To sit next to him. To maybe lean my head down to touch against his shoulder as we converse.

But that is not to be -- not now, and possibly not ever, so I hook my hands together into a knot of fingers to satisfy their itchy longing for contact and reach out to him in the only way I feel will not hurt him at the touch.

And besides: he must be so thoroughly out of the loop, having not been in school for nearly a month and all. Especially if he's not going to be returning for a while yet, judging by the bandages that grace what skin is visible from beneath his clothes and the way that something in his eyes goes hard and cold if Emilia asks a question too loudly. He's not... completely ready. Not yet.

But that's okay. He doesn't have to be. We have all the time in the world. So long as he lives here and is safe from danger -- we have all the time in the world.

That doesn't mean that today will last forever, though, and there's a point when my voice about reaches its limit and simply gives up on me. As if by magic -- as if she's been lurking just around a corner down the hall -- Baretreenu steps into the room and coughs to announce her presence, an echo to my own weak ragged stumbling over what was at last too many words. She stalks forward on light feet and comes to stand behind me, resting gentle hands on both my shoulders.

"It is getting late, Siskier," she says. There is a note of something like sadness in her voice. "I do not intend to evict you... however, I thought that perhaps you might like to know?"

One of her thumbs is rubbing circles against my back, like a longing motherly gesture that can find no expression in anything other than this. Baretreenu is aching all around the edges so strongly that she _burns_. It's not-- impatience-- but it is something close and equally pained.

She wants to be their mother _so badly_. How can that do anything but lift my heart?

I lean back into the touch a bit as I look towards the fancy clock sitting on the mantle of the fake fireplace, and start abruptly at what time it actually is. That late? _Already_? I guess I've been talking for much longer than I thought I was. And while I'd love to stay forever, to run my voice down into a broken whisper as I recount every single little detail that I can call to mind, I should probably be on my way home. My parents are pretty forgiving when it comes to things like curfew, but even if I'm off seeing Gulcasa, they'll probably still want me home soon. I'm already late for dinner.

Reluctantly, I move to stand up, and reluctantly, Baretreenu lets me go. Emilia gets up with a bounce and comes traipsing over to wrap herself around her mother's arm, and after a ponderous moment more, Gulcasa too rises, standing apart from the three of us with his hands clasped behind his back.

As one, we look over to him, and he's looking back, almost shy through his hair. But that is not what catches my interest; not his long red hair or the soft glow of his eyes, but his _smile_.

He's smiling at us in the gentlest little quirk of the lips, as if he doesn't quite remember how to do it, and the motion is a strange stretching of the muscles. There is a warmth in it, and something like hope, that I have never seen gracing his features before, and it looks so good on him. He looks-- he looks-- no, no, now is not the place for thoughts like that, even if he looks magnificent.

He should always look like that, smiling all the time, because it suits him _so well_ it makes my chest hurt. He deserves to wear that sort of happiness. I will do everything I can to let him _always_ bear the lightness of that honest sort of happiness.

After a moment, I walk over to him and open up my arms, still a safe distance away, because this is the sort of thing that should always be his own choice. And it is without any hesitation at all that he steps into their circle and rests his chin against my shoulder, cheek to cheek. Moments like these feel like bliss. I close my eyes and sink into it, and for a solemn time, I don't think either of us does much more than simply breathe. A few seconds of quiet silence pass before I let go of him and twist up on tip-toe to kiss his forehead -- just once, gentle and soft.

Baretreenu comes up behind me again and coughs once more to get Gulcasa's attention before she says, "why don't we go prepare dinner, then?"

Gulcasa nods and shuffles around me to stand at her side. It's not difficult to imagine why; I know he likes cooking, and that he is very good at it, so it is not terribly surprising to learn that he helps his mother out in the kitchen. It's pretty cute to imagine, honestly. I picture them both in aprons, sweeping about as they mix this and measure that, and I have to repress the tiniest of giggles.

Next she looks down at the little bright red bundle wrapped still around her arm. "Emilia, could you see Siskier out, please?" Her tone drips with politeness and something like formality. It is not a _demand_ at all.

"Yup," is all she says before letting go and grabbing hold of my hand instead. She swings it back and forth in gentle little arcs, fingers warm and chubby as they wrap tightly around my own. It occurs to me that she probably doesn't get to do this with Gulcasa often, or perhaps simply never in the time before she found her home here. She is like Baretreenu in this, then, if longing for a brother, rather than a son. And holding hands is easy, so I give hers a bit of a squeeze and respond with a grin that makes her face light up in return.

"Goodbye, Baretreenu. Goodbye, Gulcasa."

I want to say more than simply that -- I want to let my mouth fall open so that all of the thanks in my heart can come tumbling out, but my tongue feels far too dry for something like that. Besides, it-- wouldn't be right, here. Not in front of Gulcasa.

So instead I bow in a neat little bob and let myself succumb to Emilia's persistent tugging as she begins to drag me back into the maze of hallways that will lead to the exit. Behind me, they both raise their hands in farewell, so I return it with one last quick wave over my shoulder before turning at last to walk properly, lest Emilia tug me right over with the strength in her small hands. She really is strong for someone so young. I wonder why that could be.

We're at the door before I know it, and I'm automatically slipping back into my shoes without even stopping to release Emilia's hand. She's still swinging it back and forth, in wider and rougher arcs now, probably because Gulcasa is no longer there to be startled by the motion. Another consideration to make my heart feel glad.

"Well, I guess this is bye, huh?" I say quietly once I'm done and have released her hand to sweep free through the air with the energetic flaring of a child caught constantly in motion. I reach for the doorknob, but my grasp is weak, my fingers hesitant. I really do not want to leave.

Emilia can probably tell; she's smiling very knowingly, with bright gold eyes that suddenly seem much older than all the rest of her body. Ignoring my query completely, she looks at me thoughtfully, critically, and with one hand pressed ponderously against her cheek, she says, as if from the blue: "you really like Gulcasa, don't you?"

"Of course," I answer. It comes out so automatically that I don't have time to breathe in first. "Don't you?"

For a moment, she is caught wide-eyed and off-guard -- but then she is laughing, young and full of delight, clapping her hands together. "Yeah. Yeah! That's right. Doesn't everybody?"

That's a good answer. That's the _best_ answer, simply because it is the truth.

"An~y~way~" she trills; "bye-bye, Siskier! It was super nice to meet you, so you'd better come back soon!"

"I will." I don't even need to add that it is a promise. That's something we both already know.

Then the door swings open at my touch and the sky rushes in, carried by the breeze and studded with soft white clouds, light and brilliant and beautiful with all of spring's kisses. I wave one last goodbye over my shoulder, even if I can no longer really see Emilia through all that brilliance, and I step out onto the street with something like a skip caught in my gait and spurring on my heels.

Because it is a spring day today, bright and blue, and honestly, honestly, I couldn't be any happier.

 

It isn't very sunny when I wake up the next morning, but another kind of warm spring day: one with light rain and pale grey skies, more mist and fog than anything else. I watch it out the window as I eat my breakfast and think of how we all used to play in the park on days like this, jumping into puddles and flailing about without our umbrellas, but always mindful to make sure that Gulcasa never got too wet. I remember swapping the duty with Jenon whenever my hands grew too cold and tired to serve as supports, the look on Gulcasa's face as we shielded him from wayward splashes and tucked in the hems of his jeans to keep them dry -- little warm things like that. They make me smile.

I have a new umbrella now, as pretty a blue as the sky I can't see. He's getting a bit tall and broad in the shoulders to share it with me, but if my arms get a little bit damp when we do, I won't mind. It'll keep his hair dry. It's so long that it becomes such a heavy pain when it gets wet, and I hate watching him shiver whenever it gets plastered cold and suffocating all down his back.

He's not here to share it with me today, of course. I may not understand all the details like Jenon does, all those fancy nonsense legal words that I can never keep straight no matter how much he defines them for me, but it doesn't take a genius to recognise that all things take time. He'll be back on his feet eventually, back to walking to school with us without a care in the world, but for now, I'll just have to step past that branching street that will lead me winding up to where he lives as I go on my way.

Besides: it's not like I'm alone. And even as I think that, even as I skip over the wet concrete and do my best not to trip, I am reminded of that beautifully by the cry of greeting that hails me from a few blocks down.

Standing there at the corner is Jenon himself, with one of his fancy coats draped about his shoulders to keep his uniform dry. He has an umbrella too, dark like his hair and rolling easily against the crook of his arm as he waves to me and grins like the fool he is.

His shout is wordless, but weighty enough with the warmth of friendship that its meaning is unambiguous. I pick up the pace a bit to reach him quickly, and give him a light punch on the shoulder in lieu of greeting. He recoils dramatically, disproportionate to the strength of the blow, and mimes a stagger as he clutches at the spot and casts his other hand up to his brow. Trying to do all that while holding an umbrella _quite predictably_ backfires, and he ends up dropping it into a puddle when it slips out from the embrace of his elbow.

I laugh at him, and he does too, albeit with an edge of annoyance to grind the pitch up a note toward genuine hysteria. He does that sort of thing whenever he gets his uniform all wet. _Oh nooo._

In case you can't tell, this is Jenon, and he is one of my very best friends.

"Hey Jenon!" I shout, bouncing on my heels and sending little droplets of water in all directions, just to make him frown and shuffle around uncomfortably.

"You're in a good mood," he muses. He seems to have dusted himself off to his satisfaction; the umbrella is in place, his free hand is tucked neatly into his pocket, and he's already turning in the direction of the school and spurring me on with a sharp friendly motion of the chin. "Let me guess: you went to see Gulcasa yesterday?"

That's so like him, to figure something like that out without me having to say much more than hello. Jenon is a pretty perceptive guy like that, even if he tends to use that intuition for judging girls' opinions of him more than he does for anything useful.

"Uh-huh."

I know I should say more than that, but-- it's hard. My steps slow and my face drifts down to the cracks in the sidewalk in front of us, all little conduits to catch and carry the rain. Ahead of me, I see Jenon's boots stop, and twist back to face me. Instead of saying anything, he waits.

"He's... doing really good," I manage at last. "He didn't lose control once while I was there. And-- he smiled! He _smiled_!"

Audibly, I hear Jenon's breath catch, and escape him in a whispered drawn-out choke. His expression is almost mystified when I look up, staring straight at me with eyes that are unfocused and wide. Then the corners of his lips lift too, a mirror to my own, more explosively joyful than anything else in the world.

"His mom is so nice!" All else bursts forth in a rush of pent up energy that sends me skipping up to him, as if that will somehow communicate my earnest delight. "And he... he has a sister. He has a _sister_. Did you know that?"

The happiness on his face does not sink or fade, but it does drift somewhat, all his features realigning upon puzzled and thoughtful lines. "No, but... now that I think about it, when I was reading about the legal proceedings, it mentioned that Baretreenu went after his father in a separate case from the one about Gulcasa, a smaller and less serious one. I didn't read into it too deeply, but it had something to do with neglect... I bet that's what it is."

"Huh? Maybe! I dunno anything about that. Emilia didn't say much when introducing herself, and I was too distracted to ask Baretreenu about it afterward."

"Fair enough." He's walking again, narrow back towards me and umbrella cast carelessly against his shoulder, so I take the hint and fall into step beside him, bouncing on my toes with every stride. "But he's doing well, you say? He'll... be happy there?"

Enormously, brilliantly, that makes me smile.

"Yeah," I say. As easy as anything. I feel so light and happy that I reach out on impulse and grab his hand, squeeze it hard between my own, and swing it back and forth in wide long arcs. Startled, he looks at me as if with incredulity, face suddenly blank with shock, but he does not pull away; his fingers settle warm against mine and he lets me drag the knot between us back and forth, even if this is probably hurting his shoulder.

I'm so happy right now that I don't even really consider that and just keep going on as I am, like a bright bundle of energy rolling towards the future. "They both really love him. Baretreenu is looking forward to being a mom so bad, it'll be great. She's probably gonna knit him homemade sweaters that say I LOVE YOU on the front in six different languages, and then she won't even be mad if he never wears it ever. That's the kind of mom she's gonna be."

"That's ridiculous." He's smirking, carefree and easy. He's looking over at me really attentively too, and moderating my wild swinging to a pace better suited for walking. I let him.

"It's _true,_ " I shoot back. "The yarn will be perfectly coordinated to match his hair and eyes and it'll probably take her six years to finish because she keeps having to start over whenever he has another growth spurt, but she'll do it. I will bet you money that it's gonna happen."

He bites back a bark of a laugh, shakes his head; "you seem pretty adamant. I think I'll pass."

"Suuure, suuuure. You'll believe me when you meet her too. Oh, oh, and wait 'til you meet Emilia! She is pretty much the best kid. They're gonna be awesome siblings."

More laughter. Warm hands, cool rain, grey sky above. The spokes of our umbrellas bumping against each other, our elbows sometimes knocking. Two of us on the sidewalk huddled together instinctively, making room enough for a third who isn't there yet. He will be, soon enough, but for now: we can prepare his space, make it ready for him to fit into when he comes.

We go to school like that, and even if Gulcasa isn't walking with us, the conversation never strays far from him, like tiny planets caught irresistibly in orbit. It circles back; either because I have something new to say, a sudden detail remembered from yesterday's afternoon, or because Jenon has another question to ask. Even if he isn't bouncing like I am or smiling so wide as to hurt his cheeks, I know that he feels equally elated.

Gulcasa is his best friend too, after all. That is not a title claimed by me alone.

We get to school quickly enough, settle down into our seats and get ready to learn, but as soon as I'm there and don't have Jenon to focus my thoughts on anymore, they immediately wander. I spend the whole day like that: thinking about Gulcasa and thinking about Gulcasa and thinking about Gulcasa and unable to learn a single thing. At times I glance over at Jenon, who appears to be taking notes as if nothing is wrong, and I envy him. I seriously can't concentrate at all right now.

Time crawls, ticks, drags, and slows down in just about every sense of the word I can call to mind. When the bell rings at last and we are free to go, I stand up so quickly that I bang my knees against the table. My stuff is packed already, my bag is in hand; I'm at Jenon's side before he has even put his pen down, grabbing at his arm to indicate my urgency.

"C'mon, c'mon, hurry up! Let's go see Gulcasa!"

"Already?" He looks up at me with an expression that spells _teasing_ in every single one of its lines. "He's going to get sick of you."

I don't even dignify that with an answer or a roll of the eyes. I just tug on his arm harder, elicit a tiny _ow ow oww, alright, alright_ , and spend the agonizing thirty seconds it takes for him to pack his bag in bouncing from toes to heels, just so that I can be doing _something_.

Even once I finally get him out of the school and on our way to Gulcasa's place, I'm stuck going at his pace, since there is no way Jenon will ever run anywhere he doesn't have to. It's further to his house from the school than from home, so walking as slowly as that makes it take approximately _forever_. My hair is going to be turning grey by the time we're ringing the doorbell, I just know it.

Worst of all is that Jenon spends the whole time in total silence, his eyes locked on the ground and his brow creased in deep thought. When he gets like this, there is simply no reasoning with him, and so I'm trapped just like he is, with no one to talk to and make this walk go faster. It's annoying. To keep myself from going completely crazy, I start looking around: to the grey expanse of sky visible beyond the rim of my umbrella, to the different (yet identical) houses on all sides, the sidewalk, the streets, Pamela--

Wait. Wait. Pamela?

I look again and there she is, just up the hill and leaning against a dark streetlight somewhat carelessly, her arms crossed at her chest and her gaze fixed levelly on me. The rain drizzling down bounces off of the wide brim of her hat, splashes at her boots and elbows, but she doesn't seem to mind, even as it weighs down the long pink heavy ends of her curls.

When she sees that I've noticed her, her expression brightens, and she unfolds to stand up straight and wave enthusiastically with both arms. Even on a dreary day like this, her cheer is infectious, and I can't help but return the gesture with my free hand.

Since he's been so silent up until now, I don't remember that Jenon is at my side until he starts talking, which startles me. "Who were you waving to just now?" he asks in a mildly puzzled tone, looking slowly around at the nearly empty streets.

What's he doing? Pamela's right there, and it's not like she blends in against all these dark colours when her clothes are so explosively bright. But when I glance back at Jenon and open my mouth to say something, I notice that he's scanning back and forth and sweeping his eyes over her again and again, as if he cannot see her at all.

Huh.

"Oh, no one," I answer at last; "I'm just stretching."

I lift my arm again and twist it around a bit to reinforce my point, while across the street, Pamela giggles, waves again, and skips away. Though I try to be casual about it, I follow her all the way up the hill and around the corner, and watch the spot for a moment more after she has disappeared. But Jenon isn't looking at me anymore; he's back to staring at the drops of water on the toes of his boots, so I suppose it doesn't matter.

She's not in sight when we come up to and pass over that street, almost as if she were never here at all. Honestly, I don't know why she was there or why Jenon couldn't see her, but I don't question it too much. Maybe it's another Puella Magi thing.

While not much, the distraction provides just enough time to tide us over, so even if it takes forever, we do get there at last. Although I do have some misgivings about going back so soon -- not that I would ever tell Jenon that, not at all -- there is still enough eager energy trapped in my limbs that I don't hesitate one bit before ringing in. I spend the twenty seconds that it takes for someone to answer it so full of excitement that Jenon ends up taking my umbrella away, just so I stop sloughing residual water off onto his coat by accident.

Once again, it is Baretreenu who answers. She doesn't look terribly surprised to see us; she merely nods, smiles without an ounce of judgment, and steps aside to allow us both room enough to enter. She even takes our umbrellas each in turn and hangs them up to dry on the coat hooks on the wall while we take our shoes off. She really is quite a gracious host.

"Hello, Siskier," she says. Her voice is very warm, inviting. "And you would be Jenon, yes?"

Before I can say anything at all in response, Jenon saunters up to her, as smooth as anything, and-- oh. Oh, oh no. I know what's coming. I step forward to intervene, to stop him from doing something foolish, but he predicts my movement as easily as I predicted his, and flares out his left hand in warning to hold me back.

"You know of me, madam?" And then he smiles his most charming grin, reaches out to take Baretreenu's hand, and raises it up to leave a light kiss against its back. "I'm flattered."

Loudly, with not even a little bit of exaggeration, I groan. "Jenon! You don't do that to someone's mom!!"

He does not immediately release Baretreenu's hand as he turns his head to look back at me, smiling so enormously that there's no other word to describe it than _beaming_. "Really? You don't? How silly of me to greet our host with decorum."

"That's not what I meant, you-- ugh! Whatever!" I huff at him and cross my arms and scowl, shake my head to clear it, and glance to Baretreenu. She's looking at us with an expression of such gentle amusement that I feel my puffed up disgust deflate even as I try to hold it together, and that's no good at all. Before Jenon takes this as a victory of some sort, I change the subject: "A-anyway! We're here to see Gulcasa again, if that's okay. Jenon couldn't make it yesterday, so..."

"That's all right. He had a feeling that you two would be coming, and he has been waiting for you in the living room ever since the hour that your school let out. Let us go see him."

She turns and drifts off down the hall. Shooting Jenon a warning glare to discourage him from doing any other funny stuff -- he just smiles at me again, silently laughs -- we follow after.

Gulcasa is sitting with Emilia when we get there, both of them seated on the couch and facing each other so that there is only a scant six inches between their knees. Emilia could touch his near shoulder, if she reached out one arm and stretched a bit. There's so much trust there, between the two of them, that once again, my heart lifts.

Baretreenu coughs; they both look up. And while he does not smile, he does stand, and it is with deliberate clarity that he speaks. "Hi, Siskier. Hi, Jenon."

Emilia gets up too and comes bounding over in the restrained way of someone who is very excited but trying not to move too quickly. She hits me with a hug immediately, squeaks a happy note of greeting, and then looks over to survey Jenon with wide open eyes. Moving more slowly, Gulcasa comes up to stand behind her, and nods at us both in lieu of anything else.

Jenon, meanwhile, cannot be tamed. Belatedly, achingly, _sadly_ , I realise that I probably should have seen this coming.

For when Emilia goes over to greet him with a shake of the hand, he responds by kneeling swiftly, accepting it, and kissing the backs of her knuckles. It's like he didn't just do that to Baretreenu not two minutes ago, and like he has absolutely no shame at all. Emilia is so startled that she does not move and simply stares down at the top of his head in confusion, cheeks faintly flushing a pale red that gets lost in comparison to her hair.

"Ah, you must be Emilia," he says. His voice is smooth, elegant, charming. "Siskier told me about you. Alas, she failed to mention how lovely you are."

" _Jenon_!" I nearly shriek, biting back only out of respect for Gulcasa. But it's almost like I needn't have bothered, for his voice joins with mine in perfect, scandalised unison. "You don't do that to someone's _sister_!"

"She's... she's only nine, Jenon." Gulcasa sounds appropriately mortified to suit the situation, tone as pale as his face. His vacant expression has vanished; in its place his eyebrows have furrowed down, but his mouth wavers uncertainly between frowning and laughing. His words, at least, are unambiguous: "would you _please_."

"Oh, you guys. I just can't help but tell the truth about things like this!"

Emilia is still staring at him as if dumbfounded, but after a moment of shock, she carefully and deliberately pulls her hand away. Jenon takes no offense to that; he laughs, light and easy, and stands with grace to dust off his knees. He's grinning at me again, wide and silly. I get the distinct feeling that he's doing this on purpose. And honestly, I wouldn't put it past him to make a fool of himself like that, just to lighten up the mood a bit. What a guy.

"So-o-o!" he trills, setting his shoulders back along loose conversational lines and spreading out his hands; "how are you doing on this fine rainy day? Keeping dry?"

He looks Gulcasa up and down and drops his arms. His face-- softens. "Your mom's been feeding you well, right? She knows you don't like strawberries?"

" _Jenon,_ " I hiss again. "She's _right there_."

Startled, he turns as quickly as he dares, and sure enough, there is Baretreenu, standing a little ways back at the entrance of the hall. At the dumbfounded look upon his face, she smiles, and raises up one hand to give a little tiny wave.

"That's alright... I'm doing fine, _mom_ ," Gulcasa replies, with just the tiniest of grins. His body language is relaxing somewhat, even if there is still a slight hunch to his posture and a curve to his spine. "Baretreenu... m-mom, she's... she's very kind."

He looks over at her and smiles a little bit wider, hands slipping together to tangle fingers and clasp. There is warmth there, in that knot, and his quiet tone carries enough trust and honesty that surely it should drive away any doubts Jenon is still harbouring. That's just the sort of guy he is, after all -- he won't trust anything that his own two eyes can't see.

As if to prove my point, he turns back to Gulcasa, gives him a once-over _hard_ , then glances to me. We exchange looks, nod; it's an instinctive, unspoken thing that shuttles between us. Gulcasa catches it easily, but that's okay, because neither of us were really trying to hide it. Old habits die pretty hard, after all, and we're just so used to... looking out for him, all the time. It's not a secret we ever kept, or even something that we really sat down and decided to do. It just-- happened.

"In any case," Baretreenu says, smoothly interrupting our silence, "would you all like to sit down? There is no need to stand and talk if it would be more comfortable for you to be seated."

Emilia sits back down right away, but Gulcasa stays still for a moment longer, watching his mother as if to make absolutely sure he has permission. When he reclaims his seat it's with the same overly hesitant motions as yesterday afternoon, as if he's afraid that he might break something. Wondering how long it's going to take him to get used to this hurts, but that pain is eased by the knowledge that no matter how long he needs, he has the whole of his life ahead of him now.

Once they've both claimed their places -- further apart than before, I notice, with a touch of sadness -- Jenon and I step forth to find seats of our own. We don't want to intrude, after all. I sit in the same spot as I did yesterday, just across from the two of them, while Jenon takes the chair perpendicular to us both, and settles into it with an appraising wiggle. He takes a moment to stroke the fabric and admire its quality before looking back up once more.

"By the way, Gulcasa--" he loosens, leans forward, and rests his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin on the heel of his hand; "would you like us to start bringing you some handouts from school to look over in your free time? If you can at least look at the material we're going over now, you won't be as far behind when you're able to come back to class."

I can't believe this guy sometimes. "Jenon, he like _just_ got here. He needs peace and quiet and time to relax, not a bunch of dumb homework to worry over."

But.

"Please," Gulcasa says in a quiet voice. "Thinking about it is going to make me worry no matter what, but it would be a lot scarier to go back to school and not know what was going on anymore."

His spine straightens a bit as he says it, jaw tightening a degree towards resolute. His mind, it seems, is very thoroughly made up. Honestly, I can't believe _him_ either, sometimes. But if it's what he wants... I can't tell him what he's not allowed to do.

I bite down on the urge to sigh, and try to keep my voice from being reproachful when I respond. "If you really think so, but you can't push yourself too hard, okay?" He's looking at me up through his eyelashes, fighting hard to keep from dropping his gaze, and nodding minutely along with what I say. "You've got to take some time off, too. Talk with your mom. Play with Emilia."

"I like that idea," Emilia chimes in hopefully, and Gulcasa-- eases around the edges, relaxes as he lets out a quiet breath. His eyes dart over to her, back to me. If Emilia's in charge of making sure he doesn't work himself too hard, then we probably have nothing to fear. His heart will bend to hers, even if it takes a bit of time.

"Even though I'm the one who's offering, Siskier is right." The atmosphere around Jenon has relaxed too, and I'm sure that even I'm sitting in my chair more easily. We've spent so long caring for Gulcasa that it's only natural that we're attuned to little things like this, and I know I breathe a lot easier when he's not anxious. "School is an important thing, but what's most important of all is for you to get well. Both of us are here for you, and Emilia and your mother will always be here to help you too. Taking time to relieve stress is good for your mental health."

And because of the look on Jenon's face, I know that he's thinking the same thing that I am: school is going to be the real test.

Because it was always... hard for him. Really, really hard for him. It was bad enough being surrounded by all those people and all that noise, all those sudden movements and cries, but more than just children our age, he couldn't stand the teachers. So many of them were towering guys with stern faces and large hands, and they reminded him too violently of his father. He'd lose control a lot, if they ever came too close, or if they spoke to him with raised voices. It was awful. It was awful.

He couldn't deal with it then, no matter how tightly Jenon or I would hold him, but now that he has Emilia, now that he has Baretreenu... I think he'll be okay. He may never get over it, not completely, but if he has them to lean on, and there's nobody to constantly mottle his body with bruises, the fear will fade. I'm sure of it. It may take time, it may take patience, but I know he'll be able to come back to school eventually.

I'm thinking about it hard enough that I startle visibly when a voice suddenly breaks through my thoughts. "While you're here, does anyone want tea or a snack?"

We all look up as one, though thankfully, I'm the only one who seemed to be caught off guard. Baretreenu has reappeared from the direction of the kitchen, smiling, roses in her cheeks; she is every inch the perfect hostess as she slips what looks like her cellphone into her pocket. She must have left the room so that she could take a call.

Before anyone can refuse politely so that we don't seem like we're taking advantage the next time that she asks, Emilia leaps up and waves her hand wildly.

"I do! I want a snack!"

There's enough energy in her bounding that her pigtails are set to bouncing, her whole body quivering with excitement, and everyone cannot help but smile -- even Gulcasa, who sits up straight with his gaze trained on his mother. "Shall I help?" Even before she responds, he makes as if to stand, gathering his limbs to push himself up, because that's just the sort of guy that he is. Even when someone else is doing something for him, he cannot bear to sit and be idle.

"That's all right for today." When Baretreenu answers him, it's with that same burning-at-the-edges love from last night. "I'll only be steeping the tea and warming things up -- there isn't much to take care of anyway. Everyone, I'll bring out the different kinds of tea we have to choose from in a few moments."

And off she goes, a great sweep of white braid and busy skirts, leaving that soft and motherly air to keep us company. Sometimes it feels like she warms up the room just by being there, just by smiling, and on a cool grey day like today, that's comforting enough to make my heart glow.

But her departure leaves an awkwardness, the thread of the conversation lost. Everyone is silent for a moment, Emilia fidgeting, me and Jenon watching Gulcasa resettle himself with a touch of anxiety to his shoulders and hands clasping tightly in his lap. I feel my own fingers curl down into fists and something in my shoulders seize instinctively in response to the way the corners of his mouth turn down, tighten. This is no good. I'd better keep this conversation going.

"So what did you wind up making for dinner last night?"

The change isn't _obvious,_ not really, but all of a sudden Gulcasa has relaxed and his face is positively luminous. "Baretreenu-- I mean, Mom let me make this dish with spiced shrimp and pasta with peppers and lemon that I'd wanted to do for a while, and it was a lot of fun--"

I don't actually know that much about cooking, so I just let his words wash over me like a soothing lullaby in a different language, and it makes me smile, that note of genuine joy in his voice. Cooking has always been a passion of his, and he's really good at it, too. On top of everything else, it will be so good for him to be in a place where he can practice that freely and make all of the things he's never had a chance to try.

I mean, it doesn't take a genius to tell that Baretreenu has a lot of money, and that she won't mind spoiling either of them with it. He'll be able to get any ingredients he wants. It's going to be _great_.

I'm focusing on listening and nodding and smiling so much that for a moment, I forget about Jenon and Emilia. They're following along too -- Jenon with a degree of interest and understanding -- but before long, Emilia is fidgeting again. She fights it for a while, absorbing all these words that are as much nonsense to her as they are to me, before finally blurting out: "can we play a game or something?"

Jenon gets there before even I can. "I'll play with you if you're getting bored. This might be a little soon for your brother, and if he can't play Siskier won't want to either, but since they're busy talking about food I'm more than happy to keep you company. Are there any board games or card games that you like?"

And just like that, her face lights up like a Christmas party. "Checkers!"

"I like playing checkers, too. Shall we go get your board?"

And off they go to the bookcase down at the end of the room, where it must be stacked; Gulcasa regains his stride immediately, and I'm so absorbed in listening to him that it's only the sound of Baretreenu clearing her throat that alerts me to her presence. She's standing with a tray of sliced fruit and a box of tea bags, and is only waiting for Jenon and Emilia to get back to their seats to actually offer us our choice of whatever we want.

There are a lot of choices laid out before us -- what did I say about money and spoiling the kids! -- but I know immediately which one I want. "How about this?" I ask, leaning forward and pointing at it to indicate my choice. It's a fruity one flavoured like blueberry, nice and sweet.

The others nod their agreement and murmur their assent, but for a moment, I can't hear any of them, and it takes me a bit too long to withdraw my hand. Baretreenu lays down the tray and vanishes to make tea, Jenon and Emilia go back to setting up their game, Gulcasa resumes talking -- but it's all a background buzz to me as I look down at the back of my hand and gently resist the urge to lay my free fingers against it.

Because while I'd forgotten about it, my Puella Magi ring is there, gleaming dull in the low light. Above it, sharp and clear, is the tiny flower stamped upon my fingernail -- another mark of power in its own right. They caught my eye while I was reaching out just now, and looking at them, so innocent that none of the others have yet noticed or asked what they are, I am reminded most warmly of how they are responsible for everything good that has happened these past few weeks.

Without that wish, Gulcasa would not be free of his father. He wouldn't be sitting across from me now with an easing heart and contentment in his voice, talking about all of the different kinds of roasts he'd like to make in the future. Emilia wouldn't be playing checkers with Jenon to the side, and cheering at every piece of his she knocks from the board. No one would be smiling. _No one_.

And it's all thanks to this ring, this power, the gem it hides. If it weren't for that... none of this would be possible. It's silly, but I want to raise it up and kiss it, and whisper thanks with all of my heart.

Now is not the time for Puella Magi things, however; Gulcasa is still talking to me, even if I'm no longer hanging off of every word, and I don't want to do anything to change this moment one bit. I just want to sit here, forever and ever, and listen to him talk without a care in the world.

So I look up at him, smile, bring my focus to bear, and think to myself that it was just about the best thing ever, becoming a Puella Magi. The absolute best thing in the world.


End file.
